


Silence

by CookieCatSU



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: AU: John and Lucretia swap places, Friendship, John and Lucretia have a fun dynamic, John gets stuck being negotiator, John is a crew member, Lucretia is the Silence, Multi, SIKE, parleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: Lucretia mans the helm of their most hated enemy: The Silence. Someone's gotta talk to her.Somehow, John ends up forced to be that someone- as designated Starblaster Spokesperson™.Lots of antagonization, naturally, ensues.
Relationships: Merle Highchurch/The Hunger | John
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Silence

"Why me?"

"Why you? Why ask why you?" Magnus shrugs, as if he himself does not know the answer to the question posed. He shrugs carelessly, "Dunno. You're the most civilized amongst us. I'm guessing you're the only one that wouldn't jump on in there and instantly try to strangle the jerk"

"That's not how parley works" John protests.

"See, you already know how it works and everything. You're perfect" The man claps him on the back, "Anyway, good luck in there"

"I'm not-"

"Yes you are! We already voted on it, and 5 votes beats 2 any day"

That's how John becomes their spokesperson against the most horrid force in the universe.

* * *

He hadn't expected to actually see someone, to find an actual person, nestled within all the gray and darkness and nothing. Actually, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, to be honest, but he wasn't expecting this: A young woman, handsome and prideful, with an air of control that sends chills up his spine, seated at a diminutive little table in a humongous library.

John stares at her.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I should be asking you the same question" Is her reply that fails to be a true reply. Her eyes are probing, and John gets the unsettling feeling that she's staring through him.

"You've been trying to kill me for years" Is his hissing response, once understanding dawns.

"Oh" Is all she says. Then she grins, "You're that pain in my ass?"

John sits across from her at the little table.

"Yes. Me and a few others"

* * *

"What'd you learn, bud?"

The Starblaster's kitchen is small and compact, just barely balancing on that razor fine line between decidedly cozy and cramped. It was a ship, after all. Most of the space was dedicated to engines, sleeping quarters, or both. 

So, if Merle brushes against John's side as he scurries to the stove, it's an accident. And if John decides not to mention it, it's a consequence of the fact that the space isn't really big enough for two people, anyway. He had no reasonable justification in complaining. 

And if John smiles, ever so faintly, just as he hears his voice, it's only because he's finally got his hands on his favorite soda.

"The Silence is a woman. Oh, and she _hates_ you"

He cracks the can open, throws his head back, and takes a mighty sip. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and tries not to stare at Merle too closely. He's hustling bustling around the kitchen, grabbing eggs and balancing flour in his arms and setting aside freshly cooked bacon. John watches, content. There's something satisfyingly domestic about the whole affair, about the movement and life he can bring to such a simple task.

Merle turns back toward him, and John quickly averts his gaze.

"Really?" Merle's surprised. John wonders which is more surprising to him: that the Silence, evil as it is, is actually controlled by a human being, or that someone could actually hate him. 

"No. But I do" John laughs. 

It's not really a joke, at least not completely, (John loves Merle, he really does, but the man can be both incredibly endearing and unbearably frustrating), but Merle laughs along with him anyway.

"Just tell me how you really feel"

His movements have started to stutter out. Soon, he's stumbling over to the kitchen counter, plates in hand. He puts one in front of John, before sitting down with his own breakfast.

"Eat up" Merle exclaims, grinning like a fool.

John grins back. And he does.

* * *

Lucretia was the one who talked, and everyone else were the ones to listen. It's been that way for centuries. She, and she alone, was the singular voice of The Silence. The only one to be heard.

And then John came along, and snatched that power away in mere moments. Suddenly, there's another voice, just as loud as her own, rising to the rafters, vying for an ear to listen, challenging her authority. Making demands, bartering for the priceless knowledge that should be hers, hers alone. 

She should hate it, but Lucretia doesn't even mind. Not really.

The game is his idea: a question for a question, a word for a word, a voice for a voice. Lucretia agrees, if only because it was a nice break in the monotony. It'd been a long time since she had someone to talk to, and a throat to talk with, and she had to admit, she missed the whole sensation.

She also likes the way he thinks, and loves to argue with him: oh, yes, and make him mad, too. 

He's such a fun toy to play with. It's a shame that they'll be parting ways soon.

"Are you going to kill me?" He's shaking with agitation.

She isn't really sure why, and can't drudge up the effort to contemplate it. She rolls her eyes. She has more important matters to attend to right now, besides John's tendency towards melodrama.

Emotions are disgusting, and that man was just so full of them. It's exhausting, really.

"Yes, I think so" 

She snaps her fingers and watches him crumble. In a moment he's gone, and all around her is pleasantly silent once more. 

Perfect. She'll talk to him again later, of course, when she's in a better mood.

* * *

He shakes his head.

"What do you do between our uh… visits?"

John is getting to know Lucretia- The Silence. She _looks_ human.

She is not.

"Some of this. Some of that. Truthfully, I spend most of that time not quite _conscious,_ per say, so I can't give you a super detailed answer"

"That means?"

"I have impressions. I know when I'm winning, for example. And that's all that really matters, anyway"

She smiles. It's disturbing. Her tunic suddenly seems particularly gray. Colorless.

Empty.

* * *

“What’s this?”

“A book. I thought you might like a book, since you’re clearly so very fond of them” The concept, unsurprisingly enough, had been Merle’s idea. John, hating the very thought, quickly reminded the dwarf about how ill advised it was to fraternize with the enemy (and what embodied fraternization more than gift-giving, really?).

Merle replied with an amused snort, looked up from his cup of tea and said, “And how long have you been talking with this lady, again?” simple and succinct and compelling.

John shut up after that. And, when the next cycle came around, he does indeed come to the parley chamber bearing gifts.

“How thoughtful of you. But I don’t need any more. As you can see, I have an infinite supply”

She indicates her vast library, with a sweeping gesture. Encompassing all. John had never noticed before, but the titles on the spines were unrecognizable and impossible to make out. The books seem to waver, flickering, ghostly, like a mirage, and it occurs to John that they aren't truly real. Substantial.

Aren't truly there. Just like this room. Just like their talks. Their games.

He brushes his thumb across the cover of his book, feels how rough it is, thick leatherbound, ever so crinkled from age. It, at least, was real.

“Maybe, but not this one. This one is special” His gaze is affectionate, as he looks down at it, “This one taught me how to move on... and how to let go…”

He slides the book toward her. 

She gives him an incredulous look. As if his actions are incorrigible. No, more like he's trying to trick her, somehow. Finally, though, she picks it up, staring at the cover, royal purple and blazen with golden letters.

Her lips quirk up into what could almost be called a smile. For a moment, John glimpsed something, soft and vulnerable and _human._

Then she killed him.

* * *

He brought a second book with him. His first mistake.

"You're late," It's a statement, one that begs for an explanation. She glares up at him, insolent and angry. Looking almost hurt.

John sits across from her, as was their custom. 

"I'm not sure what you mean. There's no set time I'm supposed to visit you" He smiles, half mocking and sharp, "We're not two kids on a playdate"

"Not that. You didn't come last cycle. I captured The Light, and I was looking oh so forward to rubbing it in your face… shame, really. Whatever happened, anyway?"

"I was preoccupied" John grimaces. He remembered last year. Not one of their best. Davenport's limp body had been heavy in his arms, like lead, the gnome's blue uniform soaked through where the splintering piece of vessel went through him. Silent. Looking half dead.

So no, John hadn't been thinking about parley. He'd been too busy checking engine status while Lup struggled to pilot the ship, and Merle bandaged up their actual captain. Too busy cleaning up the damage the Silence had wrought.

“With?” The idea that he could have somewhere else to be, other than in their little chats, is clearly inconceivable.

“Helping a friend”

"I used to have friends, once" 

Again, a statement of fact. There's no question, and no follow up. John wonders if maybe, just maybe, he hears a hint of regret, of wistfulness, in her words, but then her face is back in that neutral mask, and he determines that no. No. He's just seeing things.

“I used to be small once” 

She’s looking out at a vast collection of books. Looking upon her library, as if looking upon the universe. As if she’d never left.

Lucretia kills him, but, once he’s gone, she picks up the book, and smiles.

* * *

He thinks, that on some odd, sick level, she likes him. Likes playing with him, just as a cat loves to pursue the mouse scrabbling frantically at its feet. Except, he's no mouse, and she's no cat, bent as she may be on world destruction.

No. She's a _monster,_ and John, and the crew, were going to bring her to justice. He repeats that to himself, a clawing mantra that he hugs close and dear to his heart, as he invokes parley. For the 12th time in his short (long, too long) existence, the walls of books shoot out of the abyss of gray, forming a cubby hole that would almost be comfortable, cozy even, if not for it's connotation. There's a tiny table out of the way, chairs on opposite ends. Candles all around them, lit with flame, flickering, though the air is stagnant. A library, with shelves that stretched on, infinitely, yet remained short with easily determined ends, with compact symbols etched into the wood.

Finally, the leader of the Silence appears, materializing, like a bad case of food poisoning. A smile curls across her face immediately, and she leans forward against her hand. She looks pleased to see him.

"How long has it been, John deary?" She asks, as if she does not know the answer.

"A year. It's always a year. Are you really going to waste your first question like that?"

She ignores the clear frustration lacing his tone. Instead, she squints at John, turning her head to the side as if assessing him.

"You're looking good. Paler, maybe, but I'm sure it's the lights playing tricks"

She, of course, has not changed at all. Unblemished. White hair not a millimeter longer, still short and neat just as the rest, nails curling talons ready to split him open. The same can't be said for John, whose feeling all the effects of dying... over and over again.

It's crap. His hands ache, and his face is lined with wear and damn it, his back is so messed up he hasn't been able to sleep for a week.

"It's not. I nearly got eaten last cycle" He shudders involuntarily.

"Sounds like some adventure. Tell me about it?"

His hand fists against the fabric of his pants leg. He looks away, toward a scratch etched deep into the table between them, anything not to look at the cold, callous smile surely curled across her lips, the sharp, daunting eyes white as her hair, leering with morbid satisfaction. "Later, maybe"

She laughs at him. It's a small, airy little laugh, tinged with bemusement, and what is clearly condescension. 

"Alright. I'll let it slide. I'm sure I'll get the answer out of you before this 'session' is over"

He refuses to humor her with a response. This had nothing to do with the task at hand anyway: she was clearly getting him distracted, purposely so, trying to stop him from accomplishing his goal, from gleaning even an ounce of useful information from this exchange.

She summons a silver tray, stacked with cookies, little round disks of dough colored a whimsical pink. There's a pale, cream filling in the middle, and each is peppered with an icing figure: trees, quills, cutesy little bows. She grabs a couple and sticks them in her mouth, grinning at the dubious look John shoots her way.

She's absolutely trying to throw him off. And it's working.

"Mother used to make these every new year. We'd eat them until we were sick"

It's a truly jarring sight, watching the Silence stuff her face with pastel colored cookies like a little kid. Once she's gotten through about three, the whole ordeal becomes considerably more methodical. Each bite is slow and careful, as if she's trying to savor it.

"Want one?" She asks him lightly, before casually offering up a cookie.

The Silence.... is offering him a cookie. It's all much too absurd to accept. 

He waves her off. "No thank you" 

"More for me" She says, and she plucks a couple more cookies from the plate positioned on the table between them, and then brushes the crumbs from her shirt.

John stares at her.

"What happened to you?" The words are tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

"You'll have to be more specific. I've been around for centuries, so quite a lot has happened to me"

He scowls at her.

"Whatever possessed you to do all of _this,_ if you don't mind me asking?"

She considers that. Really considers. When she finally speaks, there's a gravity there, that's been missing in their precious discussions.

"You know…. when you're _young_ and _stupid,_ and you see something unfair, you just have to say something. It's a _compulsion._ You throw your head back and you shout to the heavens about it, because the **injustice** is just too great, too grave, to be ignored. People look at you funny, but it doesn't _matter._ The righteous indignation is _so great, i_ n fact, that nothing really matters, except getting someone to hear you, and do something about it…."

"Except, no one listens. You're a voice in a sea of thousands, and… it falls on deaf ears. And you're just eaten up with this feeling of ire and resignation at how unfair life is. How unfair people are" She pauses finally, seems to realize she's stumbled into a tirade. Lucretia, avatar of the silence, just laughs then, still fringed around the edges with her previous vexation.

"Now my question" She seems to savor the sound on her lips, stressing the two syllables. _My_ question. _My_ words. _My_ voice. John waits, already mildly discomfited, with hands clasped atop the table. It's a frustrating, itching wait, and Lucretia seems interested in stretching it out as long as possible.

"Have you ever felt that way, John?" She murmurs. The man's eyes widen, but he really shouldn't be surprised. Lucretia had a knack for asking the hard questions, the ones that made him squirm, that made him red with shame.

Like me. Powerless and frustrated and just ripping apart with displeasure.

"Yes. A few times, actually"

"Really" She smiles, that ruthless smile that says she's got him, like a fish caught in a shark's jaws, "Tell me, John, what makes you just _seethe_ with anger?"

"Nope. You already asked your question. Based on our rules, it's my turn now"

"Really? That's your excuse... Since when have you, The Faithless Bird, been so concerned with rules?" She shakes her head, let's a little laugh push past her lips, "No matter. It's only fair you have your turn, and I'm nothing if not fair. Go on"

"No, wait- What do you mean by the faithless bird?" John spits out.

Surely, she was not speaking on his dedication to the crew, because John, in that sense, was immensely faithful. If he wasn't he wouldn't even be in here, talking to her, right now. 

He'd certainly never… he'd _never_ betray them...

"You believe in nothing, don't you? Talking to you is a delight, John, but I've noticed… faith is hard for you, hmm? Hard to believe in things you can't see?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I myself am a woman of knowledge, and an avid proponent of the written word, so I think I understand where you're coming from. Trusting in what is unprovable is impossible for people like you and I…. People just expect so much from us"

"What makes you think I'm anything like you?"

Her expression says she expects he already knows that answer. The way his hands clench are proof.

"Nuh-uh, dear John. Not your turn. It's my turn" She hums with the delight of her little victory. John's nose scrunches with annoyance, vitriol. She giggles (actually giggles) at him, "Give me a moment… yes, that's it. _Where_ do you get these lovely suits, and whatever possessed you to wear them? The rest of your little friends are running around, gallivanting in red idiocy, if your descriptions are correct, but you, you're sharp"

"Aren't you all supposed to be a match set?"

 _Aren't you a little talkative for someone named the Silence,_ John thinks, rueful and frustrated, but does not dare say aloud.

This meeting, for once, was going surprisingly good. She has not stabbed him yet, and they're 30 minutes in. He wasn't about to risk it now.

"Back home" He mumbles, gaze burning. "Before you sucked it in like a hungry bear. Things were sliding down hill, but it hadn't gone to complete shit just yet. But hey, I got out of some dishes, so thanks for that"

"You are so mundanely amusing, John" She shakes her head.

"My turn" It's meant in more ways than one. He taps his fingers against the table. Restless. Tapping out a half witted rhythm, carefully thinking, "I just want… need, you to know that I'm _nothing_ like you"

"I know you think you aren't" She smiles, but it's strained and faint. It takes John a moment to realize it's pitying, "I can identify a kindred soul when I see one"

 _Just like me. Lost and wayward and worthless_ . The words leave echoing whispers in his ear. A snake slithering up his neck, down his throat. Chanting. _This could have been you._

This time, it's John who jumps to his feet, all his elegant poise gone, replaced by anger and stumbling steps and slender hands slamming down on the table.

He didn't want to listen to another second. Forget the mission. Forget the information.

"I want to leave, Lucretia" He never called her by her name, never called her anything but the Silence, if he called her at all, never so ragged and torn and unprofessional. She gapes a little. "Let me leave now! Kill me if you have to, but I'm not listening to another moment of this _drivel_ from you"

Then, she's grinning at his agitation, like it's some grand meal to gorge herself on. Confirmation, more than anything else.

"Suit yourself John. See you in a year" With a careless flick of her wrist he's on the floor, leaning on hands and knees as he gasps for breath. His vision blurs, invaded by gray, skin blistering with something akin to acid (something he still has yet to identify).

Then he's dead again, floating in the blackness of yet something else he does not understand and can't name, waiting to be plucked out of the stream by the ship.

He's cold, and still angry, because he knows, on some level, that she was right. Lucretia, the Silence, always seemed to be right. At least about _him_. 

Not that he'd admit it to her.

There's a screeching noise, and then he's back, no stray hair out of place, spic and span and safe on their ship.

The crew huddles around him, waiting with bated breath for his report.

All John can think about is how much he can't stand the idea of going back. But back he would go. Again. And again. And again. And again. As long as it took, until they understood this thing.

And hopefully, it would not understand them, understand him, before they understood it. _Her._

Then again, parley always had been a dangerous game.

  
  



End file.
